


changing of the guard

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sleep Deprivation, janus: i can't sleep, janus: no, logan: too late i'm helping, logan: would you... like some help?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24457774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: He closes his eyes, trying to calm his thoughts, trying to get it across to his body that the threat is over, that there is no more need for vigilance.He jerks awake.Janus finds himself unable to sleep, even after three days of going without, even in a place that is supposedly safe. But Logan is more than willing to help him, whether he likes it or not.
Relationships: Deceit | Janus Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 23
Kudos: 283





	changing of the guard

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: mention of past injuries, sleep deprivation
> 
> Set post-Svs Redux, in some future where everyone's mostly dealt with their issues.

Janus makes it three nights without sleep before deciding that enough is enough.

Wrath is angry. Wrath is always angry, to be fair, and Janus doesn’t always care enough to know the reason why. But Wrath is so rarely angry like this, in a quiet, deliberate way, formed of a steadier fury rather than a growling, spitting rage. He’s not sure what caused it, not sure why this is happening now when by all rights, Thomas should be absolutely fine, but he knew from the moment he rose up in the dark sides’ common room to find Wrath waiting for him that this wouldn’t end well.

His arm has almost healed by now, as have the blows to his face. His ribs still pain him, but he thinks they have graduated from cracked to bruised. He counts himself lucky that he escaped without further injury.

He’s been hiding since then, hiding as Wrath prowls the house looking for him, seeking his favorite target. He can’t afford to stay in one place for very long, because Wrath is many things but stupid is not one of them, even in this state. He can’t afford to stay in his room, either; Wrath has it staked out, will burst in the moment he rises up, and _that_ was a close call that he would rather not think about. 

Usually, Remus would be here too, and that would make all the difference. But Remus has been in the Imagination for days now, working with Roman on some project, and though Janus is ecstatic that the brothers are repairing their relationship, they could not have possibly picked a worse time. Wrath and the Duke are evenly matched on a physical level, whereas Janus cannot possibly hope to win in a brawl, as his aching ribs can attest.

And with Remus in the Imagination, Janus can’t call for him. The only thing that will do is attract Wrath’s attention, and he does not like those odds at all.

So. He doesn’t sleep, or at least, not for more than a handful of minutes at a time. He stays on alert, constantly listening for soft footsteps or whispered threats. He moves location when he needs to, relying on his own ability to remain hidden in order to pass unseen. And so far, it’s worked; sure, he’s exhausted and subsisting on a constant stream of adrenaline and low-level terror, but at least he’s escaped more physical pain.

Perhaps his fear makes him weak. A coward. Wrath has called him these names and many more during his fruitless search. He is self-preservation at his core, though, and he cannot see the sense in acting any differently.

But this can’t continue. Sleep deprivation has cast a haze over his mind, making it difficult to follow a coherent train of thought to its conclusion, but he is well aware that something needs to change. Either Wrath needs to snap out of the mood he’s in, or he needs to remove himself from this situation. Or Remus needs to come and rescue him, but it’s already been three days with no sign of that, so Janus isn’t holding his breath.

He needs to leave, and that gives him two choices: the reality of Thomas’ apartment, or the light sides’ part of the mindscape. The former isn’t particularly attractive, especially since he knows that Thomas will ask questions about what he’s doing there and why he’s doing it, budding trust or not, and he’s not certain of his ability to formulate a lie he’ll believe. Thomas isn’t ready to know about Wrath yet, and he refuses to reveal him because he’s too tired to act sensibly.

That leaves going to the light sides, which is probably something he should have done days ago, when it first became clear that Wrath wasn’t going to give up on making him his personal punching bag. It was pride that held him back, pride and the knowledge that his acceptance there is tenuous at best, liable to be revoked if he steps out of line. He might be getting along with Patton, and his issues with Roman have mostly been resolved, but he’s fairly certain that Logan doesn’t care for him and Virgil remains unwavering in his enmity.

Also, handling Wrath is part of his job. Always has been. He doesn’t want them to know that he is incapable of performing his job.

“Oh, Janus--”

The voice is muffled, still distant, but Janus freezes, his heart rate accelerating. There is a sound from a few rooms away, thumping, like he’s kicking open doors or throwing furniture.

He’s out of time. He needs to make a choice, but it’s no choice at all, isn’t it? He can keep running through the mindscape, can stay undetected as long as possible, only to inevitably fail when the sleep deprivation truly catches up to him. Or he can sink out and hope that the others don’t mind him staying with them.

The thumping draws nearer. 

“Shit,” he mutters, and the noise stops, because Wrath hears him, but it doesn’t matter. The footsteps approach, but he is already gone.

He rises up in the light sides’ common room.

It’s dark. He hadn’t realized that it was night. Time has shifted and blurred together, moreso as the days stretched on, and the ground itself seems to shift and tilt under his feet. The shadows of the common room dance before his eyes, as if they hide sinister intentions, even though he knows that they don’t, that shadows cast in this part of the mindscape are just that: shadows.

This is probably the best-case scenario. He can sleep on their couch and be gone before any of them know he was here at all. Where he’ll go, he’s not sure, but he’ll figure something out. 

At the moment, his mind isn’t functioning much beyond reminding him of how exhausted he is.

He settles on the couch gingerly. The stillness of the house feels odd to him, and every creaking floorboard or hum from the refrigerator sets his nerves on edge. It’s ridiculous; even if one of the others saw him here, they wouldn't hurt him. Not physically, at least. He knows that much. And Wrath can’t get up here, can’t get so close to the forefront of Thomas’ mind without his permission, which he certainly has no intention to give. He is safe here, as safe as he can be, and slowly, his body begins to believe that, begins to relax into the cushions. He has no blanket and no energy to conjure one, no pillow beyond the stiff, decorative ones at the ends of the couch, and he finds himself longing for the warmth and comfort of his heat lamps.

But he has slept in worse places.

Sleep creeps around the edges of his mind once again, and this time, he embraces it. Three days without rest has left his eyes burning and his head spinning, and the siren call of unconsciousness beckons him.

Finally, he lets himself fall.

Only to jerk awake moments later.

He sits bolt upright, scanning for the threat his body must have sensed, the disturbance that must exist, for why else would he have woken himself up? But there is nothing, nothing but the empty, silent house, devoid of monsters and devoid of fear. Things move in the corners of his eyes, but when he looks, there is still nothing.

He settles back down. But it happens again. And again. And again.

And again.

Every time he drifts off, he jolts awake after a minute or so, only to find that there is nothing there, no reason for his reaction. His mind is playing tricks on him, is insistent that sleeping here is not safe despite all evidence to the contrary.

He groans, rubbing his palms into his eyes.

He’s so _fucking_ exhausted. So why can’t he sleep?

He turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. For a moment, he thinks he sees bugs crawling across his vision, but a hard blink informs him that there are not, that he is seeing things, imagining movement where there is none. Probably because he hasn’t slept in three days. He closes his eyes, trying to calm his thoughts, trying to get it across to his body that the threat is over, that there is no more need for vigilance.

He jerks awake.

He feels a little bit like crying. The only reason he doesn’t is through years of habit, years of refusing to reveal weakness when it could be used against him at any point. He has never had the luxury of falling apart. Perhaps it would still be less dangerous to do so here, but just because the sides here call themselves ‘light’ does not mean that they are always good, or always nice, does not mean that they are above striking where it hurts.

 _It’s a stupid name_ , rings through his head, and though Roman has long since apologized, and he in turn, the words still sting. Here, in the earliest hours of the morning, he is alone with his thoughts and his insomnia, and there is nothing to keep him from ruminating on past blows he has been delivered.

He curls in on himself, and considers seeking Remus in the Imagination and asking him to knock him out.

Not his best plan, he’ll readily admit. In his state, Remus’ side of the Imagination would likely kill him long before he located the Duke himself. But what else can he do, at this point? At least if he’s dead, he won’t be awake.

Then, the lights click on, and he lurches into a sitting position, because somehow, Wrath has found him, has broken his way into a place that should, by all rights, be barred to him, and he doubts he will escape a second time, doubts he has anywhere left to run, and all he can do is sit here and squint against the light because--

“Janus?” someone asks, and his mind pauses in its spiral of panic. Because that doesn’t sound like Wrath at all.

His vision slowly grows accustomed to the light, and as it does, the features of the figure standing at the bottom of the stairs become more clear. A rumpled tie, thick glasses, mussed hair, an empty mug held casually in one hand.

Logan. Not Wrath. Logan.

He relaxes, if only a bit. It’s certainly not as bad as it could have been. Logan is unlikely to kick him out, at least, as long as he is careful not to antagonize him.

“Logan,” he greets, nodding. He wishes he had his hat, but that was one of the first things he lost during Wrath’s initial assault. “Don’t mind me, I’m just--” His mind blanks, and he scrambles for something believable-- “sitting here.”

Oh, very good, very clever. He’s changed his mind. Being beaten half to death would be preferable to this.

Logan rubs his eyes, adjusting his glasses as he does. “I can see that,” he says, “though I believe the follow-up question to that should be obvious. May I ask why you’re sitting here? Are you aware that it’s three in the morning?”

Janus frowns. “Are you?” he asks. “It looks to me as if you’re making a late night coffee run.” He gestures to the empty mug held in Logan’s hand. Logan glances down at it, looking vaguely sheepish, but the distraction only holds for a moment before he turns his attention back to Janus again, implacable.

“Perhaps,” he says, “but you’re avoiding the question.”

He huffs, resisting the temptation to cross his arms. His tongue feels thick and leaden in his mouth, his brain working too slowly to provide a reasonable excuse, and what’s worse, his chances of actually falling asleep are even lower, now that he’s been disturbed, and he can’t say he’s pleased about it.

“Maybe I’m scheming,” he says, and tries not to sound petulant. “The witching hour’s good for that. Maybe I’m formulating an evil plan.”

“On the couch?”

“On the couch.”

Logan shakes his head. “I find it highly unlikely that you would choose to, ah, scheme on the couch rather than in your room. Additionally, three AM is typically referred to as the devil’s hour rather than the witching hour, which is itself traditionally midnight.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “You have dark circles under your eyes, and your hands are trembling. Is everything alright?”

His hands? He looks down, and sure enough, they’re shaking. He hadn’t realized.

“Everything’s fine,” he mutters, turning his head away rather than try to make eye contact. He looks back, though, at Logan’s sudden intake of breath. “What?”

“Your face,” Logan says, eyes wide. He takes a few steps forward, placing his mug on a table with a soft thunk. Janus definitely doesn’t flinch, except he might, because he’s too tired to tell whether he does or not, actually. “Are you not aware of the bruising?”

He brings a hand up to touch the side of his face. He doesn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, but applying pressure hurts, and he is vividly reminded of how Wrath slammed his face into the ground, again and again and again, refusing to stop even when he began to beg. It stopped bothering him after the first two days, once the swelling went down, so he’d assumed that any marking had faded as well. Evidently not.

He looks up, and has to restrain himself from jerking back, because Logan is suddenly crouched directly in front of him, reaching for his face. He keeps very still as Logan turns his head, inspecting the injury. His pulse races, adrenaline once again bringing his mind to alertness even as his body screams with fatigue.

At some point, he’ll probably just… pass out, right? He can’t go on like this forever, whether his mind is at ease or not.

“This must have hurt,” Logan mutters, and that cannot possibly be concern in his voice, but if it’s not, he has no idea what it could actually be. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

“No,” he says, and he doesn’t know how Logan can possibly sniff out a lie from a single two-letter word, but he must, because he glares, and Janus winces, looking away. Would Logan throw him out if he refused to say, he wonders? He doesn’t think so, but he’s been wrong before, plenty and often, especially when it comes to the motivations of the others. And Logan has never particularly liked him, even before he started silencing and sidelining and replacing him in an effort to make his own voice be heard.

“If you don’t tell me the truth, I cannot help you,” Logan says, and that is absolutely fine, because Janus doesn’t need help, he needs to go to sleep. So it must be the exhaustion that makes him reply with the truth. Not any desire for comfort, because he does not, in fact, desire any comfort. For sure.

“A broken arm and several broken ribs,” he murmurs. “The arm has healed. It’s just sore. The ribs are better, too, though not all the way.”

Logan makes an odd, choked off sound, and when Janus looks at him again, his lips are twisted into a scowl. Angry, then, though he isn’t sure why.

“Was it Remus?” he asks, voice tight. Janus blinks. Remus hasn’t injured him like this in a very long time, and especially not on purpose.

“No,” he says. “Not Remus.”

He sees the moment his meaning sinks in, watches as Logan briefly closes his eyes.

“I see,” he says. “I presume you are here for a respite, then?”

There is no judgement in his voice, none of the condemnation that Janus certainly didn’t fear would be there, because Logan certainly doesn’t scare him. Except, it’s so late, and he’s so tired, so maybe he can admit to himself, just this once, that Logan actually terrifies him, just a little bit. That Logan is the one side he feels has the power to well and truly cast him out, if he so desired. Logical truths win out over irrational lies, after all, no matter how sweet those lies might be.

But Logan’s anger, he slowly realizes, is not directed at him. Can he trust in that, if only for a moment?

In any other circumstance, the answer would likely be a resounding no. But his mind is so hazy, his eyes dry and burning, and every inch of him wants nothing more than to rest.

“He’s watching my room too closely to get in,” he admits. “I haven’t slept in three days. And even here, I still--” He breaks off, the part of himself that rebels against showing any kind of vulnerability winning out over the part of him that will say anything, anything at all, of only it meant he could catch a break.

But Logan understands him anyway. 

“After three days of constant stress, dealing with injuries, and an inability to sleep without compromising your safety, you have come here in hopes of relaxing, only to find that your mind still will not allow you to fall asleep, despite how illogical its reluctance is. Am I correct?” Logan asks, and Janus’ face burns at hearing it laid out so simply. He nods, not trusting his voice.

“Would it reassure you if someone were to remain here and keep watch, so to speak?” Logan continues, and Janus frowns, certain that he didn’t hear him right, that his muddled brain is distorting the soundwaves.

“What?” he asks, very eloquently.

Logan shrugs, making a motion with his hands. His laptop appears a second later. “I was planning to work a while longer in any case,” he says, and sits on the other end of the couch. Janus stares at him. “It is no hardship to me to do so down here, if it will help ease your mind.”

He bristles at that. “I’m not a child,” he snaps. “I don’t need you to--”

“I am not suggesting that you are one,” Logan says, overriding him. “What I am suggesting is that you are verging on dangerous levels of sleep deprivation, and you need rest.”

Janus gapes at him. Logan stares back, calm and unmoving. 

“You need rest, too,” he points out weakly. Logan tilts his head, considering.

“That is true,” he concedes. “I am well aware of the negative effects that going even one sleepless night can have. However, I received an adequate amount of sleep last night, and I plan to receive an adequate amount of sleep tomorrow night, so any adverse effects that I will suffer will be minimized. You, on the other hand, will certainly continue to experience negative impacts on your health if you do not sleep tonight.”

And Janus… can’t find it within himself to continue to argue. Logan is right that he needs sleep, and he tells himself that’s the only reason why he’s permitting this, because he’s exhausted and there’s no way that he’ll be able to persuade Logan to leave, not when it takes all of his energy to speak coherently at all, much less formulate a convincing argument.

So, he slumps back, curling in on himself again.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Do what you want. I definitely care.”

His words are slurred, his vision darkening around the edges, but that doesn’t matter, not if his mind will let him stay asleep, this time.

He barely notices the lights dim. Barely notices the blanket settling across his shoulders.

“I will, thank you,” Logan says, and Janus must be imagining the laugh in his voice. “Sleep well, Janus.”

His voice follows him into sleep, uninterrupted until the morning.

* * *

Logan wakes-- an odd occurrence, since he does not recall intending to sleep-- to a heavy weight on his chest. It takes roughly five-point-two seconds for his mind to come to awareness enough to realize that the weight is not his laptop, as was his original supposition, but rather, a person, laid out on top of him and clinging to his shirt.

Janus, to be precise, and Logan takes a moment to be glad that he is sleeping soundly. How exactly the two of them ended up in this position, he has no idea, but he will gladly bear the indignity of being used as a pillow if it means that Janus is getting the rest he sorely needed. Besides, physical contact has been linked to increased levels of dopamine and serotonin, both of which are conducive to improved mental health. If asked, he can provide this as the reasoning behind allowing Janus to sleep on top of him in this manner.

... To cuddle, rather. This is definitely cuddling.

All six of his arms are out, wrapping Logan in a firm embrace. His face is buried in his shirt, and as Logan watches, he nuzzles deeper into the fabric, murmuring something unintelligible. His grip tightens, and for some reason, Logan’s chest fills with warmth.

 _...Ah,_ he thinks. _Not… unpleasant._

‘Cute’ is not a descriptor that he ever thought he would apply to Deceit. But he thinks it might fit here. He finds himself smiling, and slowly, so as not to wake him, he works one arm out from under Janus’ and tentatively begins to stroke his hair. Janus makes a strange whining sound, but otherwise does not stir, so Logan continues the motion.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, even though it is an illogical statement, as nothing he can say now would have any effect on whether his dreams are pleasant or not. But he stays there, carding his fingers through his hair, letting Janus cling to him in what might be one of the best hugs he has received in his life, and he allows his mind to drift again.

He will likely regret this later, when one of the others comes stomping down the stairs and no doubt makes a scene. But for now, Logan lets himself fall back asleep, still smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I convinced that the orange side is Wrath, or that he'll be violent and/or evil? No. Does he make a convenient antagonist until we find out? Absolutely.
> 
> This whole thing was written as an excuse to have the last scene, because I just really wanted wanted some cuddling. Hope y'all enjoyed!
> 
> I'm @whenisitenoughtrees on tumblr, if you ever want to say hi!


End file.
